


Tomorrow

by Aria10191



Series: Meira Surana, Andrea Hawke and Éirinn Lavellan worldstate [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anger, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Hawke doesn't approve of Anders' actions, Hawke is tired of the world, Post DA2, Purple Hawke, Reaver Hawke, Solving conflicts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 19:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20069674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria10191/pseuds/Aria10191
Summary: The Kirkwall Chantry is gone, Knight-Commander Meredith is dead, and Hawke and her friends have to run from the city. People talk about the coming Exalted March, and even though Hawke helped the mages, as her name becomes a rallying cry, she hopes for nothing, but a chance to hide away from the conflict.As the events of the Gallows continue to haunt her, she can't bring herself to speak with the man whom she still loves, but who betrayed her. But to start over, she needs to break the silence.She never thought how hard saying that first word would be.





	Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I thought a lot on the run from Kirkwall, and on Hawke’s appearance in Inquisition, and I really wanted to write something about it. First, I loved how cold Varric seemed about Anders, how he spoke about writing a letter to Bethany, not to him – I somehow feel that he, and most of Hawke’s friends couldn’t forgive him, and perhaps not even because the Chantry, but because he betrayed them. Second, I was terribly annoyed because of how easily Hawke took his actions. Seriously, he killed a lot of people, lied to her, she lost a friend because of him... and she seems like she absolutely approved of his actions. So I decided to write my version of the escape.  
English is still not my first language, but I'm still trying my best.

The sun was already high above Kirkwall, the waves of the sea softly sparkling in the light. The harbor was quiet, like the city would sleep… like the darkness and violence of the night before would only be a bad dream. When Isabela climbed on board of her new ship, the second “Siren’s Call”, she half expected the waves to be red from the blood that was spilled, the towers still breathing smoke, and the Lowtown taverns and houses crushed. It was almost paradoxical to look back at the city, and see it almost normal… well, except for the old building of the Chantry, which was gone in flames, and the enchanted statues of the Gallows, lying fallen apart on the ground.

Walking towards the bow of the ship, the young pirate tightened a knot on a tether rope, testing it a few times to hold the sails tightly. The once horrible mustard-colored sails were bright white now, Isabela remembered, how much money they cost her… every bit was worth it. She ran her fingers over the carvings of the railings, and closed her eyes taking a deep breath from the thick, salty air. No one could understand, how she felt amidst all this chaos… how many times she thought of this one moment, when she will finally set sail again. How impossibly happy she was, and how ashamed of this feeling, knowing which events made it possible.

Fenris was the first to arrive – this was not surprising. Even though he lived in Danarius mansion for the last six years, he never had any ties to the house, nor the city. Since he finally broke away from his former master’s grasp, he no longer had any ties to anywhere or anyone – and he chose to stand beside his friends. Isabela herself was closer to the elf than most, but she didn’t know what to think of their relationship after everything that happened. She wasn’t sure if there was a time and place to think about it at all. What mattered now was that none of them could call Kirkwall home anymore. Wherever, with whomever they would end up was a question they couldn’t answer yet.

When Merrill joined, almost dropping her bags stuffed with books and little mementos, her cat-like green eyes examining the ship with insatiable curiosity, Isabela immediately asked her to prepare the cabins. She was sure the “kitten” is the most nervous about their departure. As Fenris, and as herself, Merrill had no one as well. Her clan was gone, the alienage was left in ruins. She never planned to stay.

And one by one, Hawke’s colorful, strange team, all carrying their own scars arrived, like they would truly answer a Siren’s Call, a beautiful, tempting melody written from their own, long lost laughter. Even Bethany appeared, carrying only a small backpack and her staff, wearing her Warden armor, saying that she will rejoin the wardens after she is sure her sister is safe.

Everyone was ready… except Hawke. She, Anders, and Varric were still missing, and Isabela started to get a little worried. The harbor could be closed down any minute, meaning that the ship can’t leave the city – they would be trapped till the templars arrived to smoke them out like rats from a hole. Her eyes looked back and forth between the chain network and the streets between the warehouses, while she was nervously stamping.

“I finished the cabins.” She heard Merrill from behind. Although the elven mage most likely tried to mask it, Isabela could hear the same worry from her voice. “Hawke…”

“They are coming.” Isabela forced herself to smile. “You know her. She never arrives on time.”

Merrill couldn’t smile back, but Isabela knew that if she would let her own nervousness show, the young girl would be even more frightened. So, she quietly turned back, once again looked at the chains, and at the streets, and only muttered under her nose… “Come on Hawke. Get yourself together.”

Perhaps, this was what she needed, because finally, three figures turned round the corner at the end of the main street. The first one was a female in light armor, with a greatsword on her back, walking with heavy steps, and with a panting mabari hound at her feet. The second, a short figure with a crossbow, and the third, the tallest, most slender of the three, carrying a backpack on one shoulder, and a heavy iron staff in his free hand. Isabela let out a relieved sigh, as they approached. They will be in time. They can leave Kirkwall.

As Hawke stepped on the plank, and boarded the ship, the pirate finally saw how tired she was, actually. The recent events affected everyone, but they had caused the most damage to her. From a great distance, one could only see that she still stood tall, her steps were heavy but at the same time energetic, her eyes on her goal… but up close, Isabela could see the faint uncertainty in her movements, maybe a slight dizziness, the remnants of never-cried tears in her scaringly blue eyes, the smaller cuts and bruises left from the battle on her neck, face and arms. She spotted Varric’s worried glances, and she spent several moments watching Anders… the mage, of course didn’t look anyone in the eye. He watched the wooden planks of the ship, or looked to the horizon, but avoided eye contact. He had the reason… everyone, perhaps with the exception of Merrill saw him now as a traitor. They were all outcasts, and what lifted them was Hawke’s open doors, sarcastic jokes, and buried beneath them, her kind helpfulness. They walked into the fire following her, but they couldn’t forget, that Anders sent the spark that lighted that cursed fire, leaving unhealable burns on their friend. Hawke herself spared his life. She desperately held onto the love that tied them together for years. But he had to remember, that most of her friends voted against him when the fight between mages and templars broke out.

Isabela didn’t plan to ask Hawke about how she felt. She knew that the Champion would lie. Her back would straighten even more, and maybe she would try to crack another bad joke before collapsing. She didn’t want her to spend the last of her energies on keeping up appearances. Instead, she just looked to the sole, worn backpack Anders carried, then asked:

“That’s all?”

Hawke put down the greatsword - once again, Isabela noticed that uncertainty as the muscles on her upper arm stretched – and nodded “I have nothing left in Kirkwall.” Her dog, Wolfy, silently whined at her feet, maybe hearing that deeply hidden sadness in the sentence, so she absent-mindedly scratched his ear. “Do we have our cabins? Not that I mind sleeping under the stars, but…”

Isabela smiled at the weak attempt to start a joke. But when Hawke tried to lift the sword again, the pirate finally realized what was wrong with her movements. Her shoulder-joint bended unnaturally. Normally, she fastened the weapon on her back with one or two easy moves, but now it was obviously harder.

“You’re injured” she stated, but immediately heard Varric.

“Rivaini. Don’t.”

“Just a souvenir from one of Meredith statues. It’s not a big deal, and I don’t see any more giant, fire breathing statues, so I’ll be fine.” She shrugged, and now it was impossible not to notice the dislocation.

“An…” she almost asked Hawke why wouldn’t she ask Anders to take a look at it, but she didn’t even need Varric’s glance to realize it’s not the best idea. The whole ship was cold with the mage, she knew that much, but she somehow didn’t yet think of the fact that Hawke herself seemed somewhat distant. During their three years together, they were almost sickeningly close. Anders was their field-medic through every adventure. He worked late in his clinic, but after that, he often joined them in the Hanged Man for a few rounds of card games or a pint of beer… when he arrived, Hawke always stood up, playfully kissed his cheek, and a faint smile appeared on his face. After that, they left together, and the whole team remembered the endless arguments between Hawke and Knight-Commander Meredith whenever she was insulted because she shared her bed with an apostate. Now, they didn’t talk a word. They arrived together, but beside that, they could be strangers. This silence, that she didn’t even hear a moment ago, suddenly seemed deafening. “Perhaps Bethany could look at it” she suggested finally.

“I’m a reaver, Isabela” said Hawke. “I _interpret_ pain differently, than most people. As I said: It’s not a big deal.”

“It is, actually.” Silent, tenor voice, a slight shake in it at the beginning, as if the person wasn’t sure in speaking up at all. Isabela and Varric immediately turned to Anders, only Hawke stayed, almost frozen in place.

“Oh, Andraste’s holy knickers…” muttered the dwarf, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“If the bone could return to the joint naturally, it would have done it by now. I saw dozens of dislocated shoulders. It is routine.” The mage continued, still watching the planks.

Silence. Cold, deep, _unbearable_ silence. Hawke brushed a lock of black hair that escaped from her ponytail out of her face and looked at Isabela again.

“I will go to my cabin… I'm... a bit tired. We are free to leave for a few more hours, I talked to Knight-Commander Cullen. He is surprisingly nice after crazy fights with crazy people. And do we have anything to eat?”

The pirate forced a smile once again and tried not to react to the weird turn of the conversation. Food was one of Hawke’s favourite topics, when she wanted to change the subject, and leave the room as fast as she could.

“We have some dried meat and fish. And dried fruits…”

“Anything that is not dried?”

“Sorry. On my ship, you eat sailor’s food.” Isabela opened her arms, and even let out a small, terribly fake chuckle, before the other woman turned around, and rushed down on the steps to the steerage.

And once again, silence. Seconds after seconds passed, and no one had the courage to start a conversation. Isabela knew that she should turn to Anders, ask him what’s going on, but as a part of the punishment for his betrayal, and also from respect towards Hawke’s own behavior, she spoke to Varric instead.

“What’s…”

“They don’t talk.” The dwarf’s answer was faster than Isabela expected. Varric put Bianca down, and leaned on the railing. “I'm not exactly sure why, but I can think of plenty of reasons, even after her decision. But it still looks awful. And what's worse, Hawke is really injured.”

“But having the blood of hundreds of innocents on one’s hand isn’t exactly the best reputation for a healer, right?” the pirate’s words were thick with sarcasm, they were meant to be a cruel joke, but this was the point where Anders couldn’t sit in silence anymore. He stood up, his lips pressed together, his backpack containing mostly medical supplies fell to the floor with a dead sound.

“This is none of your business.” He didn’t raise his voice, luckily. Even this quiet protesting against Isabela’s insult was enough to ignite the pirate’s rage. Her hand grabbed the fury collar of the mage’s dark robe, and she forced him to look her in the eye. Anders couldn’t move, not unless he wanted to make everything worse, and Isabela enjoyed this chance to hurt him a little more.

“I’ll tell you what’s my business! I’m smuggling out the _Champion of Kirkwall _from _Kirkwall._ Two or three weeks ago we laughed in a tavern, with drunken asses around us, and planned to sail the sea for a while, and get away. Now, half of Thedas wants to kill her, the other half put her on a pedestal. You robbed her off the life she spent years earning, because you had to drag her into a senseless war. So don’t you dare say this is none of my business!”

“I don’t think _you_ have the right to call me out on betrayal.” The mage’s answer came from pure anger, he only tried to protect himself with the counterattack, but the pirate’s surprisingly strong grip only tightened on his collar, meaning that he almost chocked because of it.

“I came back!”

“I didn’t even do it for myself…”

“Oh, of course! Your good intentions are surely a big comfort to all those people…”

“Because the qunari invasion was bloodle…”

“And now you shut your mouths!”

Varric basically never shouted. They saw him angry, several times, but even then, there was something calm and controlled in his voice. In some ways, he was like Hawke – maybe that was the core of their friendship – cracking a joke was better than shouting and hitting things, causing unnecessary destruction. But this calm control also meant that even when emotions were veiling his decisions, it was possible to reach his rational mind.

Now, he raised his voice, stopping both Isabela and the mage in the middle of their argument. The pirate nervously started to play with her earring, letting go of Anders’ collar, while he rubbed his neck. The dwarf looked at Isabela first, his hands clenched in a fist.

“Do we really need to be at each other’s throats?” He shook his head, and the control returned. “I’m fed up with this. And I bet Hawke is too. So get our asses out of here, Rivaini. If you still want to throw Blondie overboard after we left, we can still speak about it.”

Isabela hissed, throwing some locks of brown hair over her shoulder, and ran to the stern of the ship, to get Fenris’ help. Anders was left with Varric, and for a moment, seeing the dwarf’s icy gaze, he felt like he was safer with the pirate. He took a step back, sat down on a crate, and said nothing, just waiting for whatever he wanted to say.

But for moments, Varric didn’t speak. He most likely run through all possible scenarios, every scolding, every insult he could say, and realized that none of them would help – what happened _already_ happened. And Varric always lived in the present… whenever something went catastrophically wrong, he always tried to fix things instead of lamenting on what could have been. The cold never disappeared from his eyes, and Anders could hear the held-back anger in his voice when he finally spoke, but what he said still surprised him.

“You go down, treat her shoulder, and talk to her.” The mage looked up, finally able to look someone in the eye without force… Varric continued. “Right now, you could be wherever you want to, I wouldn’t give a damn. It’s hard to look at someone as a friend once he turned on us. But I care about what’s going on with Hawke, and I know you care too, and I guess that is what matters. So talk her ear off, beg for forgiveness, pull that ‘I’m a horrible person and you should find someone else’ act you always do, I don’t care. Just get her back on her feet.”

Silence. Anders stood up, and nodded – the gesture was an acknowledgement and a ‘thank you’ at the same time. He reached for his backpack, leaving the staff behind, and rushed down on the steps to the cabins. Varric sighed as the mage disappeared in the steerage.

***

Sitting down on the bed in her cabin, Hawke unbuckled the shoulder-plate of her armor and tried move her upper arm, when the ship finally left the harbor. She still chewed on a piece of dried fruit – it was sickeningly sugary, but she always had a sweet-tooth, and right now, the mawkish taste was exactly what she needed.

Her shoulder was swollen, and when she tucked up the sleeve of her shirt, she saw the reddish bruise. She really believed it wasn’t that bad, that the bone would just return to the joint after a few days of rest, but the pain didn’t pass. She really _interpreted_ it differently, that was the base of reaver training – learning to use the pain, instead of being controlled by it, and this was partly the reason for not treating it, just waiting for its passing. She rarely used the darker abilities that came with reaver rituals, still having an aversion against techniques so close to blood magic… but the passive ability of massive pain-endurance, the tricks to turn it into power or focus were always useful. But also… she did _feel _the pain. With each movement, she _felt_ like someone would pour molten iron on her shoulder. She simply knew how not to shout.

She touched the joint, and she felt how terribly dislocated the bone was. The red bruise was hot and inflamed… maybe she really should show it to Bethany.

“Can I look at it?” It wasn’t Bethany, of course. Anders put down the backpack on the bed and moved a step closer. “You don’t have to talk to me just… show it.”

Hawke gestured with her healthy arm, so the mage moved a little closer, and sat down on the edge of the bed, touching her elbow, and holding the injured arm in place. His movements were gentle and precise – he didn’t lie, treating a dislocated shoulder was routine. He had years of practice in healing, and he saw much worse injuries after the heated battles… the woman still remembered her two cracked ribs, and long cut at the side after the battle with the Arishok. And he didn’t talk. Hawke shot a glance at his face, and it was enough to realize, he meant what he said. If she wanted to sit in silence, only needing him as a doctor, not as a traitorous friend and lover, then he would respect it. Strangely, it was exactly this respect that made her feel like she had to say something, had to finally break the silence, at least explain the reasons for its existence. Explain the feelings behind her words, all her words in the Gallows, where there was no time to do it, and then explain why she couldn’t bring herself to speak with him. But at the same time, she just couldn’t start this conversation, because speaking about this meant that it was the past, finished, and both of them were through it. An endless loop, a paradox… speak or not to speak, punish or not to punish, forgive or not to forgive. Hawke was stubborn enough to keep the silence even when she felt it will drive her crazy. She bit her lower lip, and even turned her head.

Minutes passed, when something really cold touched her shoulder. It felt like someone putted ice above the swollen area, but Hawke didn’t have to look to know what it was. And she winced. Just a sharp intake of breath, but the cold touch immediately moved away – she didn’t react to the pain for more than a day after the battle, but now, that one slight sensation seemed different. Anders looked at her curiously, and she turned to him, stared back at him for a while… she knew it was a chance to talk. To tell him that during those three years, when the Hawke Estate in Hightown was _their_ home, there were nights when they didn’t have to fight or save anyone, and she wanted some silence, so she just sat down at the bottom of the stairs with a glass of wine and a nice book to occupy her thoughts. That when he arrived, put down his staff, a small half-smile appeared on his face (the smile that was rarer and rarer with each passing week), and he bent down to kiss her, she always felt his hands on her cheek, and from that one sensation, she knew everything of his walk from the Darktown clinic. Healing magic warmed the hands, and even when the weather was cold, that warmth lingered. But he always fought with ice, so if his fingers felt cold, Hawke was sure he ran into templars. She never called him out on it, but always visited Meredith the day after, slapping her desk, and angrily asking about the agreement about her apostate friends, preparing for every insult coming back at her. And she always left the Knight-Commander’s office, knowing perfectly well that all she heard were lies. She could tell all this to Anders now, remembrance on the recent past, start to break the walls that were built between them only in days, but… but no. She couldn’t talk, not so easily, not about something so casual. Not after everything that happened. Her stubbornness won again. She just nodded, showing the mage that she was alright, he could continue. The silence stayed, even as she saw the thin layer of glistening ice form on his fingers.

The cold helped with the inflammation – Hawke almost mentioned that cooling the area wasn’t necessary at all in her case, but it truly eased the pain. Anders moved one of his hands to her shoulder-blade, while the other gripped her upper arm.

“Take a deep breath, and exhale slowly. I will count from one to five, try to keep up the exhalation even when I put back the bone to the joint for three. Inhale.”

Hawke took a breath, and tried to keep it in. The mage’s grip strengthened a little.

“Exhale. One, two…” Hawke almost entirely focused loosening her arm, as her muscles seemed to tense unintentionally. “Three” A strong, controlled pull. Hawke gasped, and she could hear the bone clicking back to place. “Four” she almost forgot the whole exhalation. “Five.” Anders himself sighed as well, while searching for something in his backpack. Hawke tried to move her shoulder, see if the angle was really corrected, feel if the pain faded, but the mage gripped her upper arm once again. “Please don’t do that yet.” He took out some bandages and a jar of poultice. In the Free Marches, people preferred the use of potions over ointments, but in Ferelden it was different. The poultice smelled like elfroot, with a faint scent of mint… it was nice after breathing ashes and smoke. Anders applied it to the bruise, only gently rubbing it, so it wouldn’t cause more pain, than started to fix her shoulder with the bandages. And after staying silent through the entire process, he finally said something:

“I know you’re angry. You have every right to be.” No answer. Hawke pressed her lips together. “I should have talked to you. Explain it before…” The mage stopped and started to bind the bandage. “I swear I wouldn’t have done it, if I believed there was any other way. I believed, I truly believed there wasn’t, Hawke.” Still no answer. Hawke just lowered her head, closing her eyes, like she would completely shut out the world, and Anders with it. “I was prepared to die.” It was a short sentence, but it finally caught her attention, and looked up at the mage, who finished with the bandage. “I knew there will be consequences, and I was ready to pay the price. And then you spared me. I wasn’t prepared for _that._ I told you, I don’t see the line between justice and vengeance anymore. I _saw_, I _understand _that it was wrong, but at that time, it felt like the _only _choice. I am prepared to face judgement, but I won’t be able to beg for forgiveness, not even to you, and you know that.”

Hawke closed her eyes again, falling back to her own thoughts, and for a moment, a scene with Sebastian at the Kirkwall Chantry played before her eyes, from those good times, when the young man was still faithful and hopeful, and her friend. _Please, be careful – _he said – _He's a dangerous man, and selfish. Whatever he promised, don't think he'll ever put you above his own needs._ And Sebastian was right. Anders was never a man for promises, but he truly was dangerous, and despite all he said and all he believed, he truly was selfish. Selfishness causes the most damage when someone doesn’t even recognize his own flaw. Still, Hawke drew her sword at Sebastian that night, sparing the mage’s life, dragging him through the streets to see the rampaging demons, crushed innocents, mages cruelly stabbed, and templars burned to death, horrors upon horrors. And when he saw the true extent of the madness he unleashed, when he finally whispered that it was much worse than he thought, she didn’t let him go.

She knew, she wouldn’t forgive, just as Anders was unable to beg. The spirit of Justice, or demon of Vengeance, whatever he was, now fully one with him never would let him fall to his knees. Hawke knew that she would remember his lies and his betrayal for a long time, but she also knew that the memory will fade, and she will let go, and forgive. She knew, that she would remember the rage in Sebastian’s eyes as he turned around, ready to reclaim his throne in Starkhaven, with the single purpose to hunt Anders down… and she knew that if his soldiers come, she will be there, sword in hand, protecting the mage, because she forgave him for driving away a friend. And she knew that she will remember that feeling in her stomach, running towards the Gallows, that instinct to survive and at least keep a few people alive. The moment, when hopes were crushed, dreams were shattered, and everything, literally everything was falling apart. That feeling… that was the one she could _never_ forgive.

But when she took out her knife, she was unable to stab him. A careful plan formed in her rational mind – she should show the world, that she is on the mages side, but does not agree with violent solutions. She could judge the man who made peace impossible. And it was rewritten by fragments of memories in her head… her mother, with grey eyes growing dim from pain and grasp of death. Bethany falling into her arms in the Deep Roads, then taken away by the Wardens, cursed to a short, lonely life, where both nights and days were nightmares. Carver, charging at an ogre, his skull crushed into the ground. Her father on his deathbed, holding onto her hand, then letting go. All those moments replayed again and again, moments of death, and the unsheathed dagger fell from her hand, meeting the pavement with a clinking sound. She couldn’t add one more, not even when her rational mind knew she should. So it didn’t matter anymore if she would never forgive him. She didn’t have a choice, because she didn’t have the strength to choose anything other than what she did.

And of course, Hawke could tell Anders all this. She could tell him, what saved his life. She could tell him all his sins, the forgivable and the unforgivable ones. She could call him out on his selfishness, shout, maybe slap him once or twice, and perhaps, when she is really tired, and really broken, finally cry a little. And after all that, she could lead him somewhere. She could protect him from himself, as she swore to herself after that final battle. She could wash at least part of the dried, dark blood from a healer’s hand. But she still didn’t speak a word.

So Anders sighed, and packed the poultice and the bandages again, tying the mouth of the backpack, preparing to leave. He stood up, put it over his shoulder, and took a few steps… only stopping once in the door of the cabin, looking back at Hawke one last time, then turning away again. And finally, a short word escaped from the Champion’s lips.

“Tomorrow” she said.

Nothing else. Just “tomorrow”. But it meant so many things, that the mage took a shaky breath, as someone would suddenly lift some of the weight from his chest. Tomorrow, you can tell everything. Tomorrow, I will tell everything. Tomorrow, we will look each other in the eye, and maybe understand, find a common road. Tomorrow, if I can’t forgive, we may find a chance to start over. Tomorrow the air will be fresh and smell like salt, and we might forget the dryness of smoke.

Tomorrow, the sun might rise again.


End file.
